


The Witch and the Watcher

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Female Tom Riddle, Gen, Possession, Slayer Tom Riddle, Temporary Character Death, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, not light and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: Summer, 1943. A new Slayer has been called, and her assigned Watcher is sent to bring her in.





	The Witch and the Watcher

Christian Bellingham, newly-minted member of the Watcher's Council, opened a door.

There was nothing innately unusual about this, except that it was the entry to a run-down establishment called Wool's Orphanage. Most of the newly-called Slayers he'd ever known had already been assigned Watchers while still Potentials. Thus, no Slayer should have been found in a place like this. (The coven was doing a terrible job, apparently.)

This one was far from ideal, given that they knew nothing about her.

Considering where he now was, she was hitherto unwanted. ... She would be easy to coax into training. Promise her a family and enough money to live on (not paid to her directly, of course) and she'd be eating out of his hand.

Probably.

The entry was as shabby as the façade suggested. The building was filled with the sounds of children, doing God only knew what messy, horrific things children were wont to do. The only person about was an apron-clad young woman of about eighteen, who was occupied in scrubbing a patch of floor.

"Excuse me, miss."

She started, dropping her rag. "Y-Yes? How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for someone." He consulted a scrap of paper from his pocket. "A Miss Mary Riddle, I believe."

"Are you from that fancy school of hers? What'd she do?" the girl asked with savage eagerness.

Fancy school? Just what was there to learn about this girl? "No, no, I'm just looking to train her up a bit."

"For the war or something?" the girl asked, confused.

"Oh, why not?" The last Slayer certainly died because of it—while trying to stop a botched summoning ritual in Poland. It hadn't been pretty for any involved.

"Right," The girl muttered. "She's upstairs. Last door on the left." She gave him a final, uninterested nod and went back to her scrubbing.

Bellingham walked up the stairs, which creaked thunderously with each step. The second-floor corridor was friendly enough, though the open doors he passed revealed small rooms with several beds and nothing of home, at least not any sort of home he'd known. He was born into money, after all, for the Watchers had no time for anything less than the first among luxuries.

Bellingham reached the end of the corridor. The last door was firmly shut. With a put-upon sigh, he knocked thrice. It was promptly wrenched open. The girl that glowered out at him was more or less exactly what he expected. Threadbare dress; dark hair; dark eyes; pretty face; the raw, unaccustomed economy of movement of the newly-called. And yet... There was something more that he couldn't quite put his finger on: A stirring at the edge of his perception that set his teeth on edge.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"You are Mary Riddle, correct?"

She gritted her teeth and nodded.

"My name is Christian Bellingham. I am from the Watcher's Council. May I speak to you for a moment?"

"What the devil is the Watcher's Council?" She raised a hand in preparation to close the door in his face.

"We're an organization that finds and trains the Slayer. She is the one girl in all the world that can stand against the darkness."

"What?" She dropped her hand, staring at him, her mouth slightly open. "I'm sorry, but there has been a mistake. This is absolute nonsense."

"I assure you it isn't. Our girl from Germany met a tragic end while she attempted to stop a demon summoning ritual that could have been apocalyptic. With her death, another Slayer was called. It would appear that you are she."

"Prove it." Her voice rang with a note of command that surprised him. He found himself unable to resist.

"You've come into strength and speed recently that you haven't previously exhibited," he said. "You have, perhaps, sensed people approach you at night..."

"Fool. No one approaches me at night. I don't go out. Where the hell have you been for the last couple years?"

"Fine. But the strength and speed?"

"Is this your first time in this job?" she asked with a patronizing smirk. "One would think you would have a better method of proving such a preposterous claim… and a better introductory speech. Although you don't seem to be lying…"

"Of course I'm not." Where did he lose her? Most new Slayers were eager for explanations and to test their powers, or so he'd been told.

She gestured for him to enter the room, resigned. "If you are being truthful, then you will tell me everything. Now."

"Of course. May I sit down?"

"Please do." She directed him peremptorily to the single rickety chair in front of a small table that was buried beneath books and parchments. He tried to read some of the titles. "You came here to talk," she snapped, drawing his attention back to her.

"The First Slayer was created thousands of years ago to fight against vampires and demons and any other children of the darkness. Her power was passed on when the time came and has continued to be passed on with the death of each subsequent Slayer. It is my responsibility as your Watcher to train you in the ways of physical combat and the lore of those you fight."

"And if I have no wish to fight?"

"You don't have a choice, I'm sorry to say." He wasn't at all sorry. What girl wouldn't want to fight? Being the Slayer was the greatest honor imaginable!

"Hmm. And should I avoid death? How long will these powers you claim that I have received last?"

He stared at her. "I… I don't rightly know. Perhaps indefinitely. Most Slayers die within a few years. There really aren't many records on the subject."

She looked thoughtful. "I see. One more question."

"Just the one?" he asked hopefully.

"We'll see. What does your training involve?"

A reasonable question for once! "Hand-to-hand combat. Weapons such as stakes and swords. It will be quite strenuous."

She smiled cryptically. "That sounds archaic."

"It's perfectly effective," he muttered. "Now, if it won't be an inconvenience for you, I would like you to be prepared to leave with me in the morning. We have little time to waste. Vampires wait for no man—woman, rather."

"I expect not," she agreed easily—too easily, given her skepticism. "I'll be ready."

"Good." He got to his feet, bade her farewell, and departed as swiftly as he could. What was she planning? Something felt very off about Mary Riddle… and he needed to think on it.

Then again, perhaps his unease was merely a product of nerves, and she was perfectly normal.

*

Mary Riddle was confused. Confusion was not an emotion she experienced often, and she found it… unpleasant.

(The blond man reminded her of Dumbledore. That wasn't pleasant, either.)

She—a witch of immeasurable potential—possessed additional powers that had only just awakened? If true, then she supposed she shouldn't complain. She cut a finger to test this madness. When the wound knit back together within moments, she still wasn't convinced. Her magic had always taken care of such things quickly enough, though perhaps not quite this fast.

Although…

She took in a deep breath, held it, let it out. She was more consciously aware of her body, aware of every miniscule movement and shift in the air.

That settled it, then.

She supposed it wouldn't hurt to humor the sanctimonious dandy. (Bellingham? Bellingway? What did it matter? Add a decade or two and a flamboyant suit and longer hair and an enjoyment of setting magical fires and he'd be Dumbledore's double.) With a huff, she began to pack her meager possessions into her battered trunk. The innocuous-looking diary, secured in a small wooden box of its own, was stowed at the very bottom.

Her plans for this summer would need to be postponed, it seemed. Pity.

He collected her the next morning as he had promised. They took a train—rife with brief stops and longer delays—to a station a couple hours outside London. Their final destination, to Mary's annoyance, was a quaint little house clearly meant for no more than the two of them.

He gave her a tour that took no more than ten minutes. "Here is your room. This is the washroom.?—With running water, she noted.—"Here is my room. This is the library." The library, at least, was far from disappointing. She was unfamiliar with the creatures and the spells and the histories. Missing were any mentions of the magic she knew best and the Wizarding societies she so despised. Odd, that.

Their first training session went quickly. Bellingham handed her a wooden stake small enough to fit in her hand and said, "Your goal is what, precisely?"

"Stab the vampire in the heart," she replied dutifully. They taught that at Hogwarts.

"Correct! Now let's start with your footwork." But there was little he needed to show her. She'd been teaching herself to duel since the first time her belongings had been hexed by her year mates (who were now her terribly eager pupils on occasion). Switching a wand for a stake changed little. Except that… well… he'd been right about her increased speed.

"Impressive," he said when he called a halt to the session. "Tonight, I will be taking you to a graveyard, where we ought to be able to test your skills against a real opponent."

"All right," she said. "I'm looking forward to it." He shifted back a couple steps when she smiled with a few too many teeth.

The graveyard was silent and boring. Mary crouched with a stake held loosely between her fingers. Bellingham sat somewhere behind her, his head listing to one side as he attempted to stay awake. "Some Watcher you are," she snapped over her shoulder.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Some nights are quieter than others."

"That isn't an excuse to— Never mind." At that precise moment, she felt what she'd been told to expect: A stirring, a tingling. She jumped to her feet and stalked closer to the source. It was a freshly-dug grave, the name and epitaph visible but entirely uninteresting to her. The stone was pushed aside with a displacement of earth and her prey emerged, confused and out of sorts.

She gave it no time to get its bearings. She leapt with catlike grace, her stake finding a home between its ribs. Its confusion morphed to shock as it exploded into dust. Oh, oh yes… Her heart thrummed, satisfaction flooding through her veins, her mouth tasting of blood and fire. She could get used to this. If only there were more of them.

"Well done," Bellingham called. His voice cut into the euphoric haze, and she wished to rip his tongue from his filthy mouth. She settled for a disappointed sigh and padded back to him.

*

The days and nights turned to weeks, and Mary became restless. They had yet to find the sire of the vampire in the graveyard, let alone other vampires. "It's likely far away by now," Bellingham lamented. "We may need to take a trip further afield."

"When?"

"Oh, in a few weeks," he replied airily. "Get you in even better shape before we go, you know."

In a few weeks, it would be September.

"I'll be returning to school in the fall," she told him one day.

"No, you'll be receiving any requisite tutoring here." He didn't bat an eye.

"Is that so?" He would dare keep her from Hogwarts, the only place she considered home? Something needed to be done… immediately.

Most nights were uneventful, and so Mary spent her days reading and practicing with all the attentiveness Bellingham wished. 

Meanwhile, she plotted.

*

She tossed a stake at the farthest dummy in the practice chamber, impaling it squarely in the chest. Aiming was simple; practicing magic with her lesser peers had made certain of that. "What is death, Christian?"

He ceased his examination of her handiwork and blinked lazily. "The absence of life—true life, since vampires are animate but not living."

"Hmm," she said, retrieving her stakes and retiring to her room. He let her go without a fuss. It was time to begin.

:Open:, she hissed, drawing out the small wooden box from the depths of her trunk. The lid sprang free, and she cradled the container of her precious soul. It stirred within the pages, purring at her presence.

_What do you need?_ She felt the question more than heard it, like a faint echo in her chest.

_I need to di_ e, she replied.

The scrap of soul seemed to prick up its ears. _You're lucky to have me, then._

_Lucky. Yes. Now, since I cannot use my wand, you will lure the man in this house and possess him. You will then proceed to…_ She considered for a moment. This was the part of the plan that was slightly less clear.

_You do not have the materials to make a new bod_ y, the horcrux said unhelpfully. _Perhaps you should consider burning incense, to make it easier to find your way back to it, whatever method you use._

That was… genius. _He has plenty around here for the strange magic he can do._ Squib magic, she was inclined to think.

_When shall we begin?_

_Directly._

Mary rose from where she crouched, taking the diary with her. She set it quietly upon Bellingham's usual reading table. _Do what you mus_ t, she implored.

_I—that is—we always do._

Mary made no acknowledgment and flitted away. She hadn't made a horcrux to be her friend.

*

Christian was beyond exasperated. His Slayer was adept—more than adept. She picked up everything as quickly as he taught it. Her first evening patrol had been a bounding success. And yet misgivings still niggled at the back of his mind. She was… almost too good. There was no better way to describe it.

At the moment, she was likely off studying with her disconcerting vigilance. He could relax, put his feet up, take a little time for himself. There was that book on demonic astrology he'd been meaning to read. … What was this? He'd never seen this diary before, but it was on his table… He briefly noted the M. J. Riddle on the cover and wondered what she possibly had to say for herself. Perhaps all his questions would be answered in these… blank? Pages…

*

In the end, the entire process was far easier than she imagined. Christian succumbed to her soul scrap's thrall almost immediately and came to show her, looking like the cat who caught, killed, and devoured a flock of canaries.

"Very good," Mary said.

"Did you doubt me?" the horcrux asked peevishly. Bellingham had never worn an expression like that. But watching the horcrux was strange. Her mannerisms, her movements, in the much taller and heavier body of a man. The eyes were hers, however, although with perhaps a touch of red.

"You are going to drown me." Mary stood at the edge of the bath and stepped out of her dress and underthings. The horcrux hovered patiently behind her.

"Effective," she replied agreeably.

"Light the incense only if I do not return," Mary continued, nodding over to a burner and a book of matches standing ready upon the counter.

"Right."

Mary leaned over and turned the tap. The bath filled slowly, but it may have been so only in her head. When it reached the appropriate level, she turned off the water and took several steadying breaths, then stepped in. "If I struggle, knock me unconscious if you cannot hold me," she said before submerging.

She breathed deeply as she had prepared, the water cold and harsh against her. It took far more time than it should have for her to panic, but the panic did eventually set in…

Mary kicked and kicked and knew she was dying (didn't want to die, wanted to live, nothing was death, death was nothing) and tried desperately to lift her head from the water, but the horcrux's grip was firm. The water filled her nose and mouth, and oh make it stop, make it stop!

It was stopping…

She drifted free and could go no further. The horcrux held her fast with spectral tenacity within an off-white nothingness. She followed   
its pull instinctively (as if it were a spool and she wayward thread), found her way out, found the place she had just left…

She came to, sputtering and choking up foul-tasting water, the horcrux pounding her back. Her entire body felt stiff and strange, unwound and patched haphazardly back together. "Well?" the horcrux asked, helping her to sit against the wall and wrapping a towel about her shoulders.

"Success," she gasped. "If that is dying, then I never want to do it again."

"Are you still a… Slayer?" the horcrux's mouth turned down in disdain, and oh, it was gratifying to see that expression on Bellingham's earnest, forgettable face.

"Yes," she said. "I feel no different." She stretched, wrung the water from her hair and began to dress. "We need to leave quickly. Make him sleep and return to the diary."

"But I could go with you like this. Having a traveling companion would—"

"You will do exactly as I say," Mary hissed, rising to her feet—more steadily than she expected, thanks to the Slayer's gifts—and slammed the horcrux against the wall by her throat. Violence was the best method of communication she knew, and the Slayer keened for more. "You are mine." Her nails dug deeply enough to draw blood.

"Yes," the horcrux coughed, subsiding. Mary could sense her resentment. "As you wish." She staggered to Bellingham's bedroom and left him in a sprawled heap upon his bed. Her return to the diary was a blessed relief.

Merlin, Mary thought. She was never using a horcrux in this way again. The next ones would never forget their place. And for heaven's sake, she didn't need a traveling companion. She was Apparating to Little Hangleton—wandlessly and illegally, but at least it would be quick.

(And if it was emotional support the horcrux was offering, then she needed that even less.)

She tucked the diary, re-secured in its box, back at the bottom of her trunk, where it rested next to her carefully-wrapped wand (better hidden there then up her sleeve, where she might be tempted to use it). She selected a few of Bellingham's most interesting books and added them to her meager collection. She latched the trunk. She took a final look round. There was nothing here she would miss.

Time to go. She had a family to find.

*

Christian awoke to a frantic pounding on his front door. His mouth tasted of blood. His head felt heavy. He struggled from the bed and moved cautiously down the stairs, keeping a tight grip on the railing as he went.

A panting, red-faced Travers pushed past him as soon as he managed to unlatch the inexplicably unlocked door. "What happened here?" Travers asked. "A new Slayer was called. What have you done?"

"What—?” His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper; his throat ached fiercely. His thoughts were sluggish.

A new Slayer? How? Mary wasn't dead. "You must be mistaken," he croaked. Why did he still feel so wrung out, like someone had rearranged his entire being? "Mary's here. I'll go and fetch her, shall I?"

"Hmm," Travers said, dubious. "By all means, bring me her corpse."

There was no possibility that Mary was dead! As adept as she had thus far proven herself to be, he expected she'd live a long, valuable life—for a Slayer. Annoyed, Christian went back up the stairs, still leaning against the railing, and peered into Mary's room. The door was ajar, which was… unusual. And, even more alarming, the room was… empty of everything she had brought with her from the orphanage.

"She's gone!" he lamented, returning to Travers.

"Deceased, you mean."

"No. There's no sign of a body or any of her belongings. The key wasn't in the lock. She must have run away when I was asleep…" And why had he slept? He could not recall any unusual tiredness.

"Perhaps she was abducted and murdered," Travers snapped. "A new Slayer was called, you idiot. How many times do I have to emphasize this? Miss Riddle is not among the living! She has ceased to be! She is an ex-Slayer!"

Christian knew with a heavy, keening certainty that Travers was wrong. He thought of Mary's odd questions about death and shivered. "She found a way to die without dying," he whispered. "I always thought there was something off about her…"

"Whether or not that's possible is irrelevant," Travers said. "A Slayer has never wished to shirk her duties! Miss Riddle is dead. Please cease this nonsense at once." The only thing Christian could find to be grateful for in this moment was that this was Travers Sr., rather than his even more arrogant and eminently less tolerable progeny.

"What will you have me do?" he asked, letting the subject drop. (It was a tactical defeat. Years from now, he will not allow the Council to forget Mary Riddle when a Slayer that reminds him irresistibly of her is called. But that is far in the future.)

"Continue your previous research," Travers decided. "Luckily for us, the new Slayer had already been assigned a Watcher, so there shouldn't be any sort of delay."

"Good," Christian muttered.

"Quite." Travers picked up his hat. "I had best be going."

Bellingham yawned and nodded, his head throbbing. "Good day to you, sir." Travers departed. Christian did not bother showing him out.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret many things, but the Monty Python reference isn't one of them.


End file.
